


Shake the Firmament

by sugarboat



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Breathplay, Deepthroating, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Hand Jobs, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-29 09:09:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15726333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarboat/pseuds/sugarboat
Summary: Jon needs to learn respect. Mike is willing to teach him.





	Shake the Firmament

“You need to learn some respect,” Mike Crew says, and for all that he’s the horrific avatar of some great massive thing – heights and depths and falling, always endless falling – he looks like little more than an ordinary man.

Save for the scar, that is. Pink and fractal, thin lines like the dead limbs of trees climbing up his neck, the side of his face. One trailing vine passes over the corner of his mouth, bisects his lips with a stark white delineation. He has one elbow up on his armrest, arm crooked so he can prop his temple against the back of his knuckles, and he’s watching Jon struggle for breath across from him.

The Archivist’s breathing is ragged, and fast. Quick, shallow little bursts, his chest shaking with the force of them, his ribcage expanding in short, sharp increments like he’s held fast in the clench of an invisible hand, of a cage- or, just because Mike likes the image, one of those silly little corsets birds sometimes wear.

He’d had a girl wear one, once. She’d let him get behind her, and cinch it up tight, and tight, and tighter, until she was gasping for air beneath him just like Jon is now.

Jon’s lips are pressed white, a bloodless pallor to match the rest of his face, and his hands are trembling, twitching where his fingers claw burrows into the soft leather of his chair. His body’s doing that thing, hunched over just slightly at the waist. The tendons in his neck are straining, tightening on every inhale he manages to drag in, muscles depressing and flexing inwards, making stark shadows along the length of his neck.

Mike’s seen lots of people try – and fail – to breathe. It hasn’t yet failed to be a sight. Though usually they’re too busy suffocating to glare daggers at him. Too busy choking over their own ineffectual lungs to hang onto his every word like they’re ravenous, like his story is a feast before a starving man.

It's funny, Mike wouldn’t have figured himself the type to enjoy an audience. But he's finding he likes it.

“Did you hear me?” he asks, as if the answer isn’t obvious.

If looks could kill – but that’s not in Beholding’s purview. At least, Mike thinks it isn’t. The Archivist’s gaze is boring holes into him; even so, Jon gives a short, jerking nod, prettily punctuated on both sides with the quiet rasping of his breaths.

“Good,” Mike says. He rises to his feet in a liquid motion, edges around the oak sitting table that looks much nicer than it actually is. He stops just short of the Archivist. “What did I say?”

Jon wastes his air on something that comes out half a groan. Some unidentifiable sound of annoyance, Mike can tell, a snippety little complaint. Mike laughs. Sweat has strands of Jon’s dark hair clinging to his forehead.

“What was that? Didn’t quite catch all of it. You’ll have to speak up.”

Closer, now, it’s really spectacular, watching Jon’s muscles clench and shake. Mike can hear every rush of air as it goes down his throat, every short pant as it’s ripped away from his lips just as quickly. He puts his hand on the front of the Archivist’s throat – Jon tries to pull back from him, cute, but there’s nowhere for him to go, his muscles all wound up so tight, him all busy not dying – and he can feel the force of it, just below his jaw, each time Jon heaves for breath.

“R-re,” Jon tries. His voice is tight and strained, nothing like the tone he’d been pulling earlier. Still looks just as angry, though, even with his fear thickly sweet between them. “Respect.”

It comes out barely a word. More of a wheeze, but it’s good enough for now.

“Very good.”

Mike lets up. Gives Jon a gentle landing, even, and immediately the Archivist is dragging in labored gasps, the pace of them just as rapid as before. Starting to remind Mike of an actual bird, now, all quick tremulous movements and indecently fragile bone.

“That’s not going to do, come on,” Mike says. He winds one hand around to Jon’s spine, pushing at the space between his shoulders, forcibly straightening his posture. The other slides down the length of his neck, coming to a rest over his sternum so the top swell of the Archivist’s ribcage is pinioned between Mike’s hands.

“Deeper,” Mike guides him, “And slower.”

It looks like Jon wants to argue – or, more likely, just wants to get away from him – but, again, he’s got better, more life-affirming things to do at the moment. Like breathing. Mike almost thinks he’s not going to listen to him out of sheer spite, but the Archivist closes his eyes and draws in a long, lingering drag of air.

“Hold it, just like that,” Mike says, and he can feel the muscles beneath his hands shudder in waves, Jon’s body no doubt oversaturated with oxygen but still not using it properly. He counts to a slow five in his head. “All right. Let it out. Slowly.”

It’s clear that Jon’s trying to follow his direction, at least, even if his exhale comes out too fast, and he takes his next inhale early, and not nearly slow enough.

“Easy does it, right?” Mike grins at him, scar splitting his lips, teeth splitting his scar. It’s not a friendly expression. Jon opens his eyes.

“Finish-” the Archivist manages, before gasping again. “Finish your statement.”

“Oh, I do intend to,” Mike says. He adds pressure with both hands, enjoying the way Jon’s chest strains under his touch. “But I have something to teach you first, right?”

Jon doesn’t say anything. His breathing’s settling back down to a more normal rhythm. Mike wants to rip every atom of that air and puffed-up self-importance out of him all over again.

“Well?” Mike pushes.

The hand he’s kept on the Archivist’s back shifts upwards to bury in his hair instead, to jerk Jon’s head back, stretch out the slender, breakable column of his neck. Jon’s hands come up to his waist, push against him like he could physically break himself free, like Mike hadn’t gotten him caged up already, but a few rough wrenches of his head are enough to get him still.

Jon’s chest moves up and down, quickened, before he sighs, clenches his jaw.

“What do you need to learn?” Mike asks again. “Frankly, it’s an easy question. I’ve already given you the answer.”

“Why don’t you-” Jon’s cut off – or the words are snatched away from him – as Mike deposits him right back where he’d been before, and Jon’s whole body gives a rolling lurch as the first breath is tugged from his lungs.

“You’re not the one asking the questions anymore, Archivist,” Mike says mildly. Jon’s fingers tighten in his shirt.

He doesn’t make it go on as long as before. Just a reminder of the pecking order of things. It’s gratifying – Mike, of course, knows the moment that he stops, but it’s something altogether different to watch it, this close. Jon suddenly taking in a deep gulp of air, his chest shivering as he forces himself to hold it, to release it slowly.

Just like Mike taught him. Well.

“Wanna give it another try?” Mike changes the grip he has on Jon’s hair, relaxes it to let his fingertips knead into his scalp.

Jon keeps breathing, even and steady, not looking properly appreciative, really, of how kind Mike is being.

“I… need to learn respect,” he finally says. Spits it out, like all the acid that’s not in his blood right now has gone to his tongue instead.

“Right you are. And admitting it is always the first step, isn’t it?” Mike chuckles at the face Jon pulls, glowering and sullen. But he’s behaving. “Hey now, there’s no shame in it – always something bigger and badder than ourselves out there; you’d do well to keep that in mind.”

Jon rolls his eyes. “Yes, I’ll just make a memo of it, will I? Jot it on the back of my hand, pin a note next to the door.”

“Got quite the mouth on you, huh?” Mike tightens his fist in the Archivist’s hair again, his free hand leaving his sternum, finding Jon’s right hand and prying it loose from his shirt. “There are lots of ways to learn respect, you know.” Jon’s fingers are twitching. The skin of his hand looks pink and raw, misshapen. Mike drags his thumb along the center of his palm. “Some are more… effective than others.”

He watches the Archivist swallow.

“Bet you’re dying to know how I’m going to do it,” Mike says. “So, go on. Ask me. Ask me what I’m going to do to you.”

“What-” Jon pauses, and licks his lips. “What are you going to do to me?”

Mike drags his fingers free of the Archivist’s hair. He transfers his grip to Jon’s jaw, digs in with his forefinger and thumb to rub against the straight lines of his teeth through his cheeks.

“I’m going to fuck that pretty, prying mouth of yours, Archivist.” Jon’s eyes widen and Mike can feel him trying to recoil. He clamps his hand down hard around the Archivist’s jaw, squeezes the other until he can feel the fine bones of Jon’s hand grinding together. “And you’re going to let me. You’re going to take my cock so deep you can’t breathe, and I’m going to be the one who decides when you get to.”

There it is – a sharp spike of fear, of panic, Jon’s eyes flickering wildly across Mike’s features, like he’s searching for some tell, some sign that this isn’t happening. Isn’t going to happen. For his part, Mike is sure he’s never spoken like this in his life. It’s kind of freeing, actually.

“Maybe, if we’re both lucky, you’ll choke when I come,” he confides, thumb stroking smooth circles on the Archivist’s face. Imagines that face all splattered with white. “Wouldn’t that be a sight? Proud guy like you, you’d probably hate that, wouldn’t you?”

“Why should I-” Jon’s found his tongue again, at last, and Mike’s eyebrows raise. The Archivist is smart enough to keep his question to himself. “I don’t see why I should let you do anything at all.”

Mike hums, as if he’s mulling something over. He lets go of the Archivist’s hand, who immediately draws it away, shaking it like he’s trying to correct the blood flow.

“That is quite the predicament,” Mike says. “But I can think of a few reasons. My mercy, for one.”

Jon scoffs, and Mike finds himself huffing out a laugh. He sinks his fingers into the skin of the Archivist’s face one last time before withdrawing and admiring the white imprints he’s left behind as they slowly flush with blood.

“What’s that for? You think you’re calling my bluff?” Mike asks, amused despite himself. “You’re only alive as long as it’s more entertaining than the alternative. And besides…”

Mike trails off, as much to the let the moment land, really sell the drama of it all, as to watch the Archivist’s eyes flicker with curiosity and interest, tinged though they are with dread.

“You want your statement, don’t you?” Oh, those might have been the magic words.

“I-I- I don’t-”

“Come on, Archivist – feed what feeds you. Quid pro quo. It’s the way of the world.” Mike pauses again, Cheshire grin unfolding like a fractal. “Honestly, you take this little learning moment to heart, and you’re getting the better deal of the two of us.”

Jon sighs like he knows that’s utter bullshit. The Archivist bites his lower lip. He’s pulled his gaze away from Mike’s, for what feels like the first time since their chat began, and Mike has a second to wonder if Jon is going to refuse him.

Then the Archivist’s hands, still tremulous from exertion, are reaching for his belt buckle.

“You will finish your statement,” the Archivist states plainly. He pops the button on Mike’s jeans, and Jon’s eyes flick back up to meet his gaze as he pulls the zip down.

“Wow, it doesn’t take much to get you going, does it.”

Jon’s lips twitch downwards at the corners. “I just want to get this over with.”

“That’s the exact kind of attitude we’re going to be correcting,” Mike says.

With a huff, the Archivist crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back in his seat. It all suits Mike just fine; he pulls himself free of his pants and briefs, already half-hard. Jon’s watchful gaze rakes down his body, evaluating, rests on his hands where it only takes a few strokes before Mike is stifling a groan in his throat, teeth digging into the side of his cheek.

It’s not that Mike makes a habit of running into other avatars, but the world becomes small when you’re all feeding off the same chattel. And he can’t help but to recall that some of those he’d met – the ones that didn’t have some diametric opposition to the Beholding and its kin – didn’t exactly mind its Archivists. He’d dismissed it at the time, but now, with that singular, voracious attentiveness trained on his every movement, Mike is starting to see the appeal.

His pants droop down to tangle about the tops of his thighs, and Mike watches the Archivist’s eyes wander. To the side, to his left hip, where pink, branching lines of his scar radiate outward. Really, Mike is used to people staring. It takes some kind of audacity to reach out and trail fingers across them, a featherlight touch that calls to mind the shivering and exquisite pain that was burned into his nerve endings so long ago.

Mike snatches Jon’s hand in his own, tugging his fingers back from his skin.

“Respect, remember?”

“Yes, yes,” Jon snaps, irate. “I need to learn respect, you’re going to teach me, but you’re taking your damn time-”

Mike slips two fingers in the Archivist’s mouth, pushing down hard and pinning his soft, wet tongue to the bottom row of his teeth.

“Respect means asking nicely for what we want, Archivist,” Mike says, smiling at the curdled glare Jon gives in response.

The Archivist’s tongue flexes against his fingers, but Mike digs his thumb into the soft space behind the hook of Jon’s jaw, practically holding the organ captive. He squeezes tight, just until he sees the Archivist’s body wracked by another shudder, and then he lets up, in the same motion sliding his fingers along his tongue, shoving in deep until they're scratching the back of Jon’s throat and he’s wet up to his knuckles.

Jon gives a cough and tries to reel back. He’s pinned by Mike’s other hand in his hair again, and Mike holds him steady so he can rake his nails down the supple skin of the inside of his throat, drawing out quickly when the Archivist makes a retching sound.

Mike takes his saliva slicked hand and wraps it around his cock, one long stroke from root to tip, pausing to massage the head of his dick. Jon has one hand at his own throat, rubbing the outside of it as if it could ease any of the discomfort Mike had caused.

“Come on,” Mike says, shoving his hand back between the Archivist’s parted lips, "Let’s try again."

Three of his fingers are in that liquid, velvet warmth, the tops and bottoms of them bracketed by Jon’s teeth. His jaw clenches arrhythmically, teeth barely digging in to his skin before relaxing, before digging in again in short circuit loops. This time, Mike allows the Archivist free reign of his own tongue. He’s rewarded by the soft drag of it along the length of his fingers, how Jon swirls it around his fingers one by one, like he’s mapping new territories - the middle, then his left, then his right - and Mike uses his free hand to squeeze the base of his cock.

When he pushes forward, the Archivist’s jaw goes slack. His lips seal around his fingers, as they slide deeper, further in. Mike hits the back of Jon’s throat and again, the Archivist coughs, a hot expulsion of air like the rush of falling from dizzying heights. Mike withdraws his fingers, makes a shushing sound as he drives them back in.

“Swallow,” he says, hissing when Jon attempts to comply, and ends up with his teeth biting into his fingers. Mike uses his left hand to push at the hinge of his jaw, force the Archivist’s mouth open, and tries again. “Swallow.”

The Archivist’s tongue writhes strangely against his fingers, a weird sound of half choked air and saliva thrumming in his throat, but Jon finally manages it, and Mike lets the force of his muscles drag his fingers deeper down, hot constricting muscle enveloping them until the web between his ring and pinky finger is pulling at the side of Jon’s mouth, until the top of his palm is soaked with spit.

Mike rips his hand free. He lifts it and spreads his fingers, watches the shining slick of Jon’s saliva spread between them. He wraps that hand around his cock, and Jon coughs the whole time, struggling to catch his breath.

“Think you got it now?” Mike asks. In the yellowed light of his desk lamp, his cock is gleaming wetly. “Or you want a few more tries to get it down?”

“Do it already.”

Oh, that attitude is going to get this Archivist killed one day. As it stands, it just makes Mike more aware of the aching pulse in his cock.

Mike makes a tsking noise, but he grips the back of the Archivist’s head with one hand, and steadies his dick with the other, pushing just the head of it through Jon’s unresisting lips, resting it heavy on his tongue while he feels a fat bead of precome roll out. Jon makes a sound – pleased, displeased, it’s really not important – and Mike rubs his cock back and forth, shallowly, imaging grinding that slick fluid into the tissue of Jon’s tongue.

He thrusts gradually deeper. Jon’s lips tighten reflexively, griping his length, and his teeth keep brushing over his skin like a true novice. Mike hits the back of the Archivist’s throat and he pulls out at the hacking sound he gets in response. Then in again, taking his time breaking Jon in. When he hits his throat, Mike keeps going.

“Swallow,” he says, and moans when – after a few botched attempts, Jon’s tongue pushing futilely against the breadth of his cock – all of the Archivist’s muscles constrict tightly and drag him in, deep, Mike pushing his hips forward until Jon is suddenly flush to his pelvis, the entire length of him sheathed within the Archivist’s throat.

That was what he was looking for.

He can tell the moment Jon tries to take a breath in, and can’t. Wide eyes stare up into his own, and Mike rolls his hips against Jon’s face, looking past him to watch the excited, panicked flutter of Jon’s chest as he realizes he can’t breathe.

Barely in for a few seconds and Mike pulls back, the Archivist coughing and sputtering the moment he’s free.

“You ready?” Mike asks.

He looks down to his cock, dark and curving, glistening with spit. To the Archivist, lips red and rubbed raw, saliva smeared down his chin. His breath coming short and sharp and fast again. To Jon’s eyes, dark and shining with unshed tears – involuntary probably – and meeting his own, and Mike thinks he might be getting a glimpse of what’s to come, because Jon’s looking at him, not just seeing him but Seeing him, pilfering secrets, like Mike is nothing but the limns of his scar and the buzzing electricity in between, the heady surges of vertigo, the circular sensation of feeding, being fed, like the Archivist knows all of that, and more.

Jon doesn’t answer him. Instead, the Archivist keeps their gaze locked and drops his mouth open, tongue dragging along his bottom lip. The fine hairs along Mike’s body have raised, a thrill not altogether dissimilar from exhilaration pulsing through his limbs.

Fuck, Mike knows an invitation when he’s given one. He holds Jon steady with a hand at the nape of his neck, and plunges fully inside him in one drawn out push. He doesn’t stop until the Archivist’s lips are wrapped tight around the thick base of his cock, tongue squirming along its underside. Until he’s popped the head of his cock into the Archivist’s throat and further, lodged deep inside him, until he can feel it working around his length.

Those tears have welled again, and spilled, thin briny tracks down his cheeks. Mike wipes them away with his thumb, close enough to feel the damp flicker of the Archivist’s eyelashes when they flutter. Jon’s hands are on his hips, supporting some of his weight, flexing and relaxing in incongruent patterns.

He puts up a good show, Mike will give him that. The Archivist lasts longer than he’d thought he would before he’s starting to struggle, trying to swallow in autonomous panic. Mike grinds against him - can’t get any deeper than balls deep - pinches into Jon’s muscles to keep him still, and then pulls out. Lets the Archivist gasp for breath over his cock before shoving himself back in.

In, and out, while Jon makes soft, wet choking noises, interrupted by his coughing fits, bookended on all sides by his ragged breathing, becoming faster, shallower, as the time Mike allows his mouth to stay empty is incrementally shortened. Arousal is a knot wound in agonizing slow motion by their pace. Low and simmering and constant, leaping in spikes every time the Archivist’s throat tightens impossibly around him. Every time those red rimmed eyes meet his own, dark lashes clumped together with tears.

Mike keeps one had planted on the nape of Jon’s neck to hold him in position whenever he inevitably begins to panic. The other, however, is free to roam, brushing off fresh tears as they slip out, pushing in on the Archivist’s cheeks until Mike feels his own dick on the far side, the action rubbing velvet smooth flesh along his length. It drifts down to cup the front of Jon’s neck, grinding the heel of his palm in as thrusts, fancying he can feel the bulge of his cock while he fucks the Archivist’s throat.

“Bet you have lots of questions now, don’t you?” Mike says. He’s rubbing the head of dick against Jon’s lips while he pants and pants. The Archivist’s tongue flicks out to lap at him intermittently, without a pattern, like it’s unconscious, something Jon’s not even thinking about.

Mike is thinking about him asking those stupid, prying questions with his voice all torn up from his dick. He shoves back inside, a fluid motion til he’s sheathed, and thinks about how he’d like to split the Archivist’s voicebox wide open with his cock – but that’s probably not a real possibility.

It happens gradually enough that Mike fails to take full notice, at first. Jon fighting him less and less, pulling back less frequently. Learning, maybe.

He makes it a long, smooth slide back into Jon's throat this time. Slower than before. Mike cocks his head to watch every inch get swallowed up by those lips. It must be more difficult this way; the Archivist starts to shake minutely halfway down his dick. But he doesn’t resist. Doesn’t pull back or tighten his jaw, even though Mike can still feel his throat working convulsively around him. He relaxes the grip he’s kept on Jon’s neck, turning his fingers to scratch gently against his scalp, up and down.

Some of the tension drains from the tight line of Jon’s shoulders. And for the first time, his chest is still and calm as he waits. It’s a few seconds before the Archivist looks up to him again, almost placidly, as if some switch has been flipped.

“So good,” Mike breathes, not missing the way another shiver vibrates its way through Jon’s form. “Like that, do you? You like being good for me?” He withdraws just as slowly as he’d gone in. “I like it too.”

The pace stays like that for a while, Mike pushing his hips forward languidly, the Archivist sinking low onto his cock, and then the pause – as long as he wants, or as short, and Jon just takes it, fuck – then drawing out until his leaking tip is coating Jon’s tongue in slick fluids, or until the head of his cock pops out from between red, red lips.

It finally grows to be too much. Mike holds Jon’s head in place and snaps his dick in hard, sets a brutal rhythm that has him pummeling the Archivist’s throat, forgetting to ease up, to let him breathe, burying himself in deep enough that Jon has no choice but to swallow – if he even has to. If Mike isn’t just spilling come straight down his throat.

Once he’s pulled himself free for the last time, lingering in the Archivist’s mouth, giving himself a few final, wrenching strokes to milk every last drop of come out, Mike shoves himself away, fixing his clothes. He’s really going to need a shower after this. Jon’s taking deep, shuddering breathes, like breathing is the sweetest thing he’s ever done. Scrubbing at his face, now that the tears have finally stopped flowing.

Mike leans over him. He uses his left hand to shove Jon’s shoulders back into the seat. His right slides down the front of his chest. Slips between his thighs, and Mike is satisfied to find Jon hard in his slacks. Mike grins, but for once, it seems like the Archivist doesn’t want to look at him.

“Hey,” he says, palming Jon roughly through his clothes. “Fair’s fair, right?” Jon’s hands find his shoulders, but he’s not pushing him away. “I don’t mind that you enjoyed yourself. Really. Makes it better, in some ways.”

There’s a new tint to the flush suffusing Jon’s face, and boy, he really does not look pleased when his eyes finally flick back to meet Mike’s own gaze.

Mike toys with the idea of making him say it – making the Archivist ask him for this – but it feels dangerously close to pushing his luck.

Maybe next time.

He tugs Jon’s pants open and pulls him free. Gives him a nice, firm squeeze to start that makes Jon shift his hips. A few slow twists of his hand, while Jon digs his teeth into his lower lip. Mike removes his hand – it makes Jon sigh, something like annoyance or relief – but it’s just to lick at his own palm, get something slick going before he sets about in earnest.

The Archivist’s mouth drops open. His hips are twitching on each stroke. It’s nice. He moves the hand still pinning Jon to the back of his chair over to his throat instead, rubs his thumb up and down the side of it. Starts to work up to a bit faster of a pace, thumbing at the slit of Jon’s cock until he’s groaning. A horrid kind of sound, actually, with how broken his voice has become.

Then Mike Drops him.

The effect is pretty much instantaneous, all the sound and air ripped free from the Archivist’s mouth, his chest heaving wildly, shallowly, and Mike keeps his hand moving through it. Tension thrumming like a cord throughout Jon’s entire body, his hands on Mike’s shoulders still, twisting in the material of his shirt. When he lets Jon down again, Mike removes his hand from his cock. Keeps the only contact between them his hand around Jon’s throat, Jon’s on his shoulders.

Until he Drops him again, and resumes. By the third cycle Jon is shifting restlessly beneath him, a pathetic whining noise in the back of his throat when Mike takes his hand away. On the fifth, Jon’s hips are bucking up in time to his strokes, crashing into his hand, even as he’s getting the breath torn loose from his lungs. Mike adds a careful amount of pressure to Jon’s neck, squeezing the sides of it just so, and Jon is close – he’s so close – when he stops again.

“Please,” Jon gasps, using all the air he doesn’t have, limbs trembling. “Please-”

Mike ensures that Jon comes while he’s falling, his mouth still shaping endless pleas without the breath to make a sound.

The Archivist is oddly quiet when Mike’s finished with him. Mike wipes his hand off on a napkin he’d set out with the tea. Some of his muscles are twinging, courtesy of the strange angles he’d been holding himself at. 

He drops himself back into his chair. His tea’s gone cold. It takes a bit for Jon to pull himself together. He looks shaken, flustered – pretty well and properly fucked, if Mike could say so himself.

“Things got a little escalated there,” Mike admits when the Archivist finally seems like he’s mostly coherent again. 

Jon gives him a withering glare. He's touching his right hand to his throat and neck, gingerly - where Mike likes to imagine he can see the imprints of his own fingers turning to bruises. When he makes no move to respond, to break the silence between them, Mike continues. 

"Sure you wouldn't want that cup of tea now?"

**Author's Note:**

> If you're breathing, you're achieving!


End file.
